


Down in the foundry we forge for us the changing bell

by randomicicle



Category: Jpop, KAT-TUN (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-17
Updated: 2011-11-17
Packaged: 2017-10-28 07:08:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/305165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/randomicicle/pseuds/randomicicle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shuuji and Akira are BACK!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Down in the foundry we forge for us the changing bell

**Author's Note:**

> **Written for** : [Rei](http://reiicharu.livejournal.com/), @ [Amigo Exchange 2011](http://amigo-exchange.livejournal.com/) (originally posted [here](http://amigo-exchange.livejournal.com/10020.html))
> 
>  **(OST) Notes:** [Album](http://www.mediafire.com/?zgmdnnuyotb) and [song](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vgsr71eTkQg).

As Yamapi takes a seat in front of the large mahogany desk, he feels a trickle of self-consciousness creeping in. This office tends to do that, turn them back into 12 year-olds that will nod to whatever the big boss says because he _is_ the big boss and you can’t say no to him, no matter how nice he seems. So as he folds his hands on his lap, Yamapi tries not to look as expectant as he feels.

Johnny smiles in greeting. “Yamashita,” he speaks, in that husky old man’s voice of his. Yamapi tries not to laugh at how accurate their impersonation really is. “He should be here in a minute. You two were always the punctual ones.”

Yamapi doesn’t even have time to look questioning before there are knuckles rapping the other side of the door, and he instinctively turns to look. It doesn’t creak when it opens, and Kame stands there, wide eyed – probably taken aback when he spots Yamapi, or because he is still wondering why he was called to Johnny’s office out of the blue, like Yamapi himself is. It has been ages since he stepped foot here, and right now, while he is still settling back into the routine after touring on his own, he wonders what Johnny could want to speak to him and Kame about. Together.

“Good morning,” Kame murmurs, and Johnny motions (impatiently) for him to sit, which he does. Yamapi notices how he immediately crosses his legs, how prim he looks in his suit, devoid of the ripped fashionable jeans that would better match what Yamapi is wearing. He feels suddenly underdressed, and realizes how silly that is.

Some movement in the corner of his eye draws Yamapi's attention back to Johnny only to see the old man leaning forward, an excited half grin on his wrinkled face and almost manic glee in his eyes that is more sinister than usual.

“Marching J is not enough,” he says, and Yamapi frowns. He knows the concerts are raising money and everyone is doing the best they can. Johnny taps his fingers together, elbows on the desk, and Kame shifts uncomfortably in his seat. Yamapi finds it calming, that he isn’t the only one confused.

“Our target has changed,” Johnny elaborates, and Yamapi frowns, because nothing good could come from the excitement in his voice. “We need to work with the _youth_ , give something directly to the kids... it’s the spirit that needs rebuilding, that is why!”

Yamapi feels the leather under his pants, and it squeaks when he moves. This time, it's Kame's turn to look at him.

“We’re sending in Shuuji and Akira,” Johnny says triumphantly, and claps his hands together, sealing a deal that, clearly, necessarily involves them both.

Yamapi wonders if he looks like a fish then, with the way he knows he’s gaping and snaps his mouth shut when he notices his jaw open. At least Kame is silent in his shock, calm even when his face is slightly tense. He clears his throat though, speaks faster than Yamapi. He wonders if Kame will put up a fight again; refuse to join this venture, only to end up being dragged along anyway.

“But-”

“No buts!” Johnny cuts in, jovial but emphatic. And then there’s a finger pointed their way, straight and demanding and Yamapi knows there is no way out.

“ _YOU!_ Go find youth again!”

It is the last thing Yamapi expected to hear that morning. And from the sudden tension in Kame beside him, he may be feeling exactly the same way.

 

\--

 

The silence clings tense and charged as they walk out, polite nods of goodbye once their boss refuses to give more details and instructs them to get in contact with their managers. Since they will now be working as a joint unit, their schedules will be coordinated and moved around; though Yamapi’s vacation and KAT-TUN’s concerts being cancelled will certainly aid in making the whole coordination easier. Yamapi wonders if he can still call his vacation a _vacation_ at all now that he has to do this Shuuji and Akira surprise resurrection act at middle schools. From what they understood, it won’t be very demanding, time-wise; however, Yamapi has been expecting this vacation eagerly. It does make him cringe a little that it won’t be a real one.

He doesn't notice Kame walking beside him until he sighs and receives a chuckle in response. The other man offers him a half smile, soft on his formerly tense features, and Yamapi smiles back, awkwardly. When Kame stops in front of a vending machine, it feels natural to halt as well, lean against it as the metallic gears and pieces of machinery clunk into place to make a watered down lame excuse of a coffee. Yamapi looks down at Kame crouching there, same bony knees outlined under the elegant linen of the suit, and snorts.

From his place on the floor, Kame arches an eyebrow at him. It looks funny, with the way his hair falls on his forehead, and how he looks anything but the salary man he apparently was trying to emulate. Yamapi can see it behind the suit; a hint of leather and beads on his neckline, tons of threads circling his wrists under the cuffs. The shy glint of an earring on the left side of his head.

Kame is in the middle of his two public personas, and all Yamapi can see is the little guy with huge eyebrows he had scuffles in parks with, a tiny one that swam in long yukatas and shared takoyaki with him on filming sets. Kame is older now; shoulders broader and eyes sharper. He is still exactly the same.

“We’re back, huh,” Yamapi says casually, because Kame is looking at him, expectant.

Kame laughs, and stands up once he has the coffee on his hands. Yamapi confirms the beaded bracelets peeking under the cuffs then, and almost snorts again as they lazily continue their way to the elevator.

“I’m sorry about your vacation,” Kame says suddenly. It surprises Yamapi that he knows. Kame only looks at him with a wry, sympathetic half smile, sips from his coffee as the elevator door opens with a clunking sound. His round eyes turn to Yamapi, and they’re moving down to the lobby with the soft mechanical hum in the background. “Akanishi told me,” Kame adds, glancing at him from above the rim of his cup, but Yamapi can see the shy boy peeping from underneath, uncertain.

Yamapi smiles faintly. “Ah,” he replies. There really isn’t anything else he needs to add. Or more like, he doesn’t want to ask why Jin would feel the need to share that particular information with Kame in the first place. Not that the fact that Kame is name-dropping Jin so casually doesn’t surprise him.

Kame shuffles his feet, and lets out a nervous chuckle. “You sure need it, huh,” he mutters, cracking his neck. Yamapi agrees. The numbers on the digital screen signalling the floor they’re currently bypassing blinks 8 back at them. “Have you ever taken one?” Kame asks as he turns to him.

“Have _you_?” Yamapi counters. And he can’t help a mocking smirk on his face, which feels vindicated when Kame chuckles merrily and tilts his head in acknowledgement, amused or not at their situation, but relaxing a little as he takes another sip of his coffee and nods distractedly. Yamapi nods too, wondering really if Kame and vacations were on alien terms as well, and if that was yet another tiny detail they had never really talked about. He has to admit, he and Kame aren’t particularly close, and yet –

“Hey,” Yamapi says, just as the elevator rings again and the doors open, the large lobby expanding in front of them and bustling with life, and the loud rumbling noise of constant chattering. A troupe of juniors hurry towards the door, and he closes his mouth, moving hastily with Kame to the side, slightly amused at almost being run over by a bunch of kids. Kame smirks at his side, balancing his half empty cup of coffee, and glancing briefly at him with that lopsided grin of his.

“Are you going somewhere now?” Yamapi asks as he bumps their shoulders together.

Kame almost stumbles, and mock-frowns at him. Yamapi follows him toward the entrance.

“Maybe,” Kame laughs, but the way he smiles at Yamapi tells him they will be leaving the facilities with the same destination. “What do you have in mind?”

Yamapi grins, thinking it may have been a long time since he spent some real time alone with Kame, between their work schedules and the hectic rush of real life and the lack of mutual friends, except the very few who didn’t really hang out anymore. Not since _things_ happened, and oceans of separation had filled the now non-existent space between them.

There are certain individuals out there, unexpected and surprising, whom you can lose track of for ages and wonder whatever happened to their lives. But as soon as you are in the same room again, it is as if not a single minute apart has passed and you are suddenly fifteen again, sharing secrets under bedcovers, munching on snacks while playing video games and exchanging confessions late into the night.

Yamapi bumps against Kame’s shoulder again, lightly; proposes pasta for dinner, and Kame agrees to follow him in his car to the homey, cosy family restaurant Yamapi knows.

Yamapi does feel fifteen again. And wonders if he still has his stack of old mangas, and if Kame is still into them.

 

\--

 

Yamapi stares at the tabloid, tugs his comforter tighter around himself as he curls on his side and waits for the light blue alert to flicker to life. His face looks up at him from the crinkled paper; it looks apathetic and bored and _dead_. _Dead fish eyes_ , he mocks himself, and actually snorts into the emptiness of the room. They certainly put some effort in finding his worst photo for this article; it definitely seemed to back up his alleged apathy towards his band and bandmates. It absolutely twisted reality into this distorted wicked fairy tale where he wasn’t just another character, but the heartless villain who betrays his comrades in the middle of a highly dangerous quest.

He sighs, and leans back just when his laptop screen flickers and Jin’s face blinks at him, slightly lagged until the connection stabilizes.

“Yo,” Jin greets, and Yamapi growls. Jin’s laughter is amused enough to have an effect on Yamapi; it pulls the corner of his lips upwards, and he smiles a bit tiredly despite everything. “You look horrible.”

Yamapi snorts. “You too. There’s an animal growing on your face.”

Jin flips him off, and Yamapi chuckles when his friend self-consciously looks to the side, probably checking his reflection somewhere. “I’m growing a beard,” Jin mutters, petulantly childish, and Yamapi chuckles again, hard enough to make Jin on the screen glower at him under his huge hoodie.

“You can’t grow a beard any more than I can,” Yamapi declares half-heartedly, somewhat sulky, and Jin laughs in agreement. Yamapi’s mind gets filled with Kame’s face from the other day, stubble already there marring his otherwise prim look. He will be forever amused at Kame’s so called femininity; especially as he stares at Jin still pouting and poking at his own chin. The oversized hoodie looks less gangsta than Jin thinks it does.

Yamapi chuckles at the irony.

Jin looks up, large dimmed eyes directed at him eagerly. Like always. “What is it?” Jin asks, and Yamapi is back there, lying on his stomach in front of his laptop. He sighs, and pushes the tabloid spread in front of the camera, hoping it will be enough to be read. Jin yells at him to stop moving it around, but he ends up humming and Pi knows he’s gotten the message across. Jin’s face has taken a grave mood, and Yamapi sighs, knowing that Jin’s mind is months back now, when it was _his_ face looking apathetic in tabloid spreads, and the bright red scandalous headliners had his name scribbled all over an article full of half lies and twisted truths.

“Throw it out.” Jin’s voice cuts through the slow mellow music coming from his speakers. It is alien to Yamapi, the seriousness; the way he gives no room for objection. “Throw it out, its all rubbish,” Jin adds. He is Jin again, relaxed and shrugging it off, diminishing the importance of all those half lies and twisted truths to almost zero. Yamapi feels a bit relieved, but only pushes the tabloid to the side. “They would lie about anything to sell more,” Jin says, spite clear in his voice, hands playing with a small rubber ball now; bright neon yellow that almost glows in the dimly lit room he’s sitting in on the other side of the world.

Yamapi feels his throat closing in though. Because they’re not all lies; not when he spots in the article talk on how busy he is and how he is barely capable of juggling his solo activities. How Yamapi wants to challenge new things and his music style clashes with his band’s; how NewS’ latest group activity was more than five months ago, if not more, and that was only because _everyone_ did something in December. How they wanted to plan a concert, but weren’t, or couldn’t, or _haven’t_. How it stated, in bold italics in the middle of it all, that Pi _wanted_ out.

The cold tickling on his fingers bothers him, but he doesn’t tell Jin more. He nods, tries a small smile, and Jin pumps a fist in the empty space between the laptop and himself. Yamapi chuckles, and feels actually a bit cheered up.

“Ignore them, Pi,” Jin mutters, and his eyes soften as he leans closer to his camera. “It’s not worth it.”

Yamapi wishes it were as easy for him to ignore. But it’s not. He is not Jin.

“So… how’s your place?” Yamapi asks, effectively changing the subject when Jin launches into a detailed description of how awesome his place is, about his roommate and all the _awesome_ people he knows, and the _get togethers_ he has every now and then. Yamapi considers telling him about Kame; about this new project that involves working during his vacation, telling him about late night dinners they’ve had where Kame had ended up glassy eyed and talking enough for Pi to sporadically ignore him in favour of watching the people in the restaurant. How Kame had smacked him when he’d noticed and they’d both laughed it off. How he had dropped Kame at his place without even needing to ask for his address; and how Kame’s laughter was contagious enough to make him laugh despite the stress and anxiety driving him a little closer to the edge each and every day.

“And you? How is everything in Japan?” Jin asks.

Yamapi smiles, and he means it. However, he replies, “Same old, same old.”

 

\--

 

“I wonder if these are new.”

Kame laughs, throws him a tie, and Yamapi chokes indignantly when it lands hard on his face. It has been surprisingly easy to fall into the familiar friendly banter with Kame, despite being more the on-and-off kind of friends. Those who would randomly email each other, or exchange DVDs they are never able to watch together. It is simply _easy_ together; so much so that it makes Yamapi wonder why on Earth they aren’t closer, using work as an excuse to hang out more often. Kame’s warmth is different, laced with something that feels more intimate, more personal; Yamapi enjoys basking in it and sitting with a smile as Kame waltzes around him with his usual need to control and perfect what was already good. It is familiar; personally so.

Watching himself in a mirror with a high school uniform feels more ridiculous than melancholic at the moment though.

“I doubt I could fit in the old costumes,” Kame comments, adjusting his tie, and Yamapi doesn’t say anything, because he is seeing bony shoulders and visible ribs and a tiny fragile shape of 40 kilos of weight. It is an image he doesn’t like conjuring. Kame notices, turns to question his silence and his face softens. He smacks Yamapi in the shoulder. “ _You_ , on the contrary...” 

Yamapi snorts, and Kame pokes him in the side, making him squirm. “Fine, fine,” Yamapi defends himself, and pokes Kame in his tummy; actually pinches his middle, and Kame bats his hands away. Yamapi laughs, tries to pinch him again, but Kame is _strong_ and ends up pushing him for real and poking him hard enough to make him squirm and fight for dear life.

They end up in a mess in the floor, dishevelled, backs against the drawers of their makeup dressers. Kame laughs; squinty-eyed, open-mouthed, and Yamapi goes along because Kame’s laughter has always been like that, chasing and tugging at him to join and bask in it again, that warmth that always settles between. It sounds like lazy afternoons and slow walks after filming filled with idle chatter to the station; of sitting side-by-side, so close their knees touched, sharing a cup of hot ramen, steam puffing against their faces as nasal chuckles filled the street, and Kame beaming in delight when Pi would forfeit some of his meat and push it towards his side of the bowl.

It feels suddenly five, six years back, sitting in their Shuuji to Akira dressing room. And they aren’t older and different, but mere teenagers playing adults in high school uniforms, in the way they push each other back and forth and soon dissolve into childish pranks and silly teasing; in the way Kame pokes him with his toe from where he is sitting, still smiling in amusement. “Pi,” Kame breathes, pants. The grins tugging on their lips remain.

There is a thud when his head rolls back to the wooden drawer. “Yes, Shuuji?”

Kame chuckles, keeps poking – more like stabbing him with his toes –, until Yamapi grabs his socked feet. Kame’s eyes widen, his face hilarious when he tries to bring his leg back to him. “You wouldn’t dare,” he hisses, and Yamapi doesn’t care; his fingers are tickling him, and soon Kame is a squirmy mess in the floor, face scrunched up all ugly and flushed red. Yamapi almost gets kicked in the face before he finally let go of him.

“Idiot,” Kame breaths out, but he is fighting a smile. Yamapi laughs. _Kons_. Kame rolls his eyes.

The door opens. Their managers stare down at them, confused. “The car is here,” one of them - _Yamada-san_ , Kame’s manager- informs them as they try to scramble up, ignoring the slight reproval in their shocked stoic faces.

His jacket lands on his face when Kame throws it to him. But the smiles linger all the way to their first school.

 

\--

 

The school is huge, large brick walls cracked here and there, but generally in good condition. The teacher walking with them tells them of the work they had done before classes were resumed, and Kame nods in understanding, because while Pi also cares, he’s distracted by the colourful boards in the walls and the sneak peeks he gets from inside the classrooms. Kame on his side walks like he is dressed in one of his sharp dull suits, seemingly unfazed at all by the uniforms they’re wearing instead, these impersonations of themselves that speak of completely different personas; they speak of walking on tip toes while sharing an umbrella as they waited by the door, how Kame would hold it and Yamapi’s legs would swing in sync with the raindrops.

Dressing up as this, as Shuuji and Akira, means dusting off those shelves of memories that were so warm yet elusive.

The first class they go to obviously doesn’t have a single clue of who they are. The tiny kids only stare back at them like the two strangers they are, old guys playing dress up with high school blazers and colourful ties and maybe just a tad of hesitation. Yamapi feels self conscious like he hasn’t felt in a while inside these clothes and (if he’s honest with himself) a bit ridiculous. Then a little kid, one in the second row that looks rather like he would be a delinquent in high school, the outgoing kind with a sharp look and smug grin, asks loudly how old are they. Kame laughs while Yamapi blushes and scratches the back of his neck. It is Kame who comes up with an answer, age being just a number and being young enough to come and play.

Yamapi knows it will be a disaster when the teacher suggests a drawing challenge, but few minutes later, the kids are laughing at Kame's failed doodles of Yamapi and their desperate yet futile attempts to keep competitiveness under control with all these middle schoolers around. It feels warm when they wave goodbye to them, especially when a tiny girl with piggy tails runs to Kame and hugs his waist; or when the little delinquent tugs on Yamapi’s sleeve, asks him if they’ll be coming back.

“Akira is nice,” Suzuki-kun says, and Yamapi thinks that, maybe, he won’t be a delinquent after all. He _kons_ , one eye closing for effect, and tussles the kid's hair; the frowny way Suzuki-kun bats Yamapi’s hand away doesn’t really hide the grin on his face, and it stutters in Yamapi’s chest.

In the car on the way back, Kame's face is bright with a grin, cheeks so high he looks like a rabbit. “Come to my place,” Yamapi says suddenly. And Kame nods immediately, still grinning, already listing things they should get at the combini.

Yamapi fingers the drawings in his hands. Two wiry limbed doodles with blue blazers and matching ties look up at him, colourful lines wobbly but bright, huge crayon grins curling up on their faces. And their hands are linked between them, just in front of a ridiculously oversized apple tree.

It is only when they arrive at Yamapi’s that Kame shivers, shakes, and laughs in that breathy relieved way of his, as Yamapi plops himself up a counter without being scolded for doing so. “Argh, that was nerve wracking,” Kame confesses, laughing, eyebrows creased as his face turns melodramatic and Yamapi laughs too, agreeing. He takes the noodles from the paper bags, moving beside the water that Kame pours for it to boil. Confirmation then that Yamapi isn’t alone in this, not at all.

Kame is around.

 

\--

 

Yamapi gets away from the bar, trying to find his lost friend among the swaying crowd and wondering if he really needs to. The Lex is unexpectedly alive, and the music blasts through the speakers full volume, loud enough to leave his ears buzzing slightly as soon as he is out on the terrace. Fresh air hits his face as he sighs. There really is no reason to fret; Kame could be anywhere, although the idea of him bumping into friends _here_ is amusing, hilarious even, and it makes Yamapi snort, but he pushes it down and remembers it was him who made Kame tag along whilst the other had looked everything but convinced. There was really no valid reason to crash Shirota’s celebration party other than Yamapi asking him to be there. And Yamapi knew that, understood his grimace, and still had poked Kame enough anyway.

“You never give up, do you?” Kame had asked with a tired sigh, half covered by pamphlets and notes, and Yamapi knew his face was smug when he noticed the subtle surrender. He had been ready to avoid being kicked, but Kame didn’t even try; just asked the date and time and went back to highlighting some crinkled paper in his hand.

And that was how Yamapi found himself in the terrace of the Lex, wondering where Kame had gone to, and when had he exactly lost track of him. Ryo had obnoxiously dragged him away, introduced him to some friends, and Kame had been lounging somewhere near Yamapi until… he wasn’t. It would be easier with Jin; Yamapi would find him in a blink, searching in the three places he could be. Same thing with Ryo, or Toma, or Jun. But he has no idea where to look for Kame and it is too crowded, his shirt sticky now that he has taken a breath to notice.

It’s easier to be dragged back inside by Yuu’s sister, to laugh it off and accept a bottle of beer in his hand, one he twirls and feels heavy on his fingers, brittle and fragile. He misses Jin a bit, because Jin would know; he would pull Yamapi to the dance floor and get some girls’ attention, throwing tacky pick-up lines that actually worked. He would end up chatting with the girls and Yamapi would join, and everything would go swimmingly from that moment on. Right now though, he sees his friends drift away, and wonders if it isn’t that Jin is the one cohesive matter that keeps everything glued together. It certainly feels like it; it is always easier to gravitate around Jin. Like moths around a light bulb.

Kame is dancing. Yamapi actually halts, tilts his head just as Kame throws his head back, looks over his shoulder, and Yamapi notices he isn’t dancing with the girl slithering her way in front of him. Not that he is _not_ , but he seems to be dancing on his own, and people around him just take turns into vying for his attention, none being spared more than some seconds of it. This is a first for Yamapi. In there, under the coloured lights and probably stepping on spilled drinks and sleek linoleum, Kame is unexpected, volatile, and suddenly so near Yamapi can almost taste him.

Kame laughs. His hands tug on Yamapi’s shirt. “Stop creeping,” he slurs, smirk curling deviously on his face, and Yamapi wakes up.

He snorts. And follows.

“Shuuji-kun~ you’re drunk,” he states, sing-song voice being shouted in Kame’s ear, but Kame only laughs, bats his hand away, and his attention is somewhere else. Enough to make Yamapi laugh, pull him back closer, and Kame stumbles, clings to Yamapi with a sharp yelp, and shoves him playfully, tugging Yamapi and some stranger closer, and suddenly Yamapi is dancing with this cute brunette with long _long_ hair, Kame’s slippery form still moving in the corner of his eyes, their hands eventually touching in a sea of hands touching, backs colliding and elbows hitting his back.

When it’s time to leave, Yamapi can’t throw Kame alone in a cab.

“You sure drank a lot,” he huffs, pushing his door open and hoping the other man doesn’t suddenly slump down to the floor. Kame snorts, grumbles under his breath, and disentangles himself from Yamapi, stumbling inside his apartment. How many times Kame has done this is a mystery, but it may have been quite a lot, with the perfect beeline he trails to his bedroom without knocking anything over.

The bed bounces under Kame’s weight as Yamapi leans on the doorframe. It’s chilly, even with the curtains closed, and his back is clear against his bed sheets. The process of removing his shoes doesn’t take long, not even with Kame rolling over and trying to push Yamapi away because “ _I can_ take my own shoes off”.

“Drunkard,” Yamapi mocks, and Kame tries to punch him. It ends with his hand on Yamapi’s shoulder, unmoving, and heavy. “I’m never taking you out again,” Yamapi adds, and this time, Kame smacks him slightly, even if it’s just short stubby fingers pushing on the side of his neck.

“As if -,” Kame replies, but he is cut off by his own yawning, falling on his side and curling in on himself, drowsily. Yamapi wants to poke him, or push him up to the headboard, but only half-smiles where he is, crouching at the foot of the bed. Kame’s eyes look as if he’s fighting to focus on Yamapi, on his own finger trying to touch Yamapi’s forehead, and almost poking his eye out.

“Akira,” Kame whispers. Soft-spoken syllables threading the thin silent air between them. It startles Yamapi, the tenderness.

“Stay?”

His added weight makes the mattress sink again, soft and creaking when he snuggles under the covers and manages to pull Kame up with him, throwing him to the side and having a short-lived fight for an especially large pillow. Kame’s face gets lost against it, one eye barely open watching Yamapi with mirth. He curls in on himself, hands resting between them, motionless and warm. The bed is large, but there is no invisible line between them. They still curl up close enough for their feet to tangle together.

 

\--

 

Yamapi wants to list all the excuses he has come up with on the way here. As the elevator door dings open, he goes through them one by one on his head, wondering if they’ll be convincing enough; if they will have the intended result on Kame’s mood. There was a time he used to think about Kame and this borderline obsession he had with baseball, when he would talk about it to boring extents in interviews or in private, how he would be updated on it as if his life depended on it and his mood would vary with news he got from his former life, from his ex teammates and their failures or successes. Yamapi remembers being young, having barely debuted, and wondering why Kame would push himself to that extent, to an IV tube connected on his arm, passed out in exhaustion on a couch or in a car or leaning against a wall. And getting him in a way, how he had already given up so much, _too much_ , to let it go. How it was only compensation.

And it had been this idea, this absolute conviction, what had driven him out of home so early, bread just out of the oven still warm in one hand; jelly and ham and cheese on the other one. Trying to chase away with food the gloomy mood in Kame’s voice is a strategy that has worked before with himself. Thinking of Kame batting, exhausted, muscles tense and rippled, sweat falling down his face to a ball that was never high enough or fast enough or strong enough… it had tugged something in Yamapi as well, pulled on those buried chords of being faster, being stronger, being _better_.

 _Perfect_ , was this lingering goal, dangling above his head since forever, and Yamapi flinches at the gap in front of his footsteps, the endless road to getting there. And can’t help but stare to the side, how Kame had started way behind him, his opening line miles farther, and yet… they were here now, side by side, so different and yet –

Yamapi looks down at his hands, thinks of Kame falling to his knees, to his voice as the final commentaries roll on, an expression that couldn’t quite hide the disappointment. And how Yamapi wants to extend a hand and tug him forward, remain side by side with him, before he loses his footing and realizes that Kame, maybe, isn’t really running down the same track as Yamapi anymore.

Then the door opens, maybe a bit too late, but at least Kame is in front of him now and not the gloomy voice that had answered the phone earlier that day, the sad chuckle of defeat that hadn’t exactly celebrated a triumph like Yamapi was _sincerely_ expecting him to. Kame looks surprised and dishevelled and… _alright_. Yamapi isn’t sure what he had expected to find, but it was not Kame joking around when he sees all the food on Yamapi’s arms.

“Getting used to eating here, huh?” he teases, and Yamapi can almost believe it, that he is perfectly alright, especially as they make grilled cheese sandwiches (something Jin taught him) and Kame sprinkles garlic on top of it, and oregano and basil and Yamapi mutters they should put some tomato sauce on it to have pizzas, only Kame doesn’t like tomatoes and thus there is none.

It is only when they plop on the sofas, stomachs full with a huge breakfast none of them is used to having, that Kame smiles tiredly and rubs his arms, the sore muscles melting where they are sprawled all over. Yamapi wants to ask if he is really alright, but Kame sighs and leans against him, doesn’t really try to excuse himself even though Yamapi _knows_ he knows what this is all about, that this isn’t just a regular visit but more of an intervention. Yamapi feels it somehow wrong though; his reasons for this visit. Because it feels offensive, trying to look down on all the effort and saying it was the weather or bad luck or any of those excuses he had listed in his head earlier that made the ball not quite _get_ there.

It is like invalidating a successful home run to these trivial things and it’s just not fair.

"I did my best," Kame breathes.

And Yamapi knows he did; knows Kame _will_. Because that is who Kame is, has always been, and Yamapi feels a tiny bit of himself seeping through his fingertips because that is something they would always have in common.

Kame smiles when Yamapi offers to make tea; breaks the sudden tension saying it should help his stomach settle after all the greasy things they ate. Yamapi chuckles, blames Jin’s influence on himself, and disappears inside the kitchen. He asks Kame about the PV they just shot two days ago, and Kame softly answers, starts telling a story or two, and sounds quite energetic until his voice becomes some lulling noise in the background and finally disappears.

When Yamapi peeks back in the living room, Kame is asleep on the couch. So he sips his tea alone, mug cradled on his hands, changing channels leisurely and ignoring the slowly cooling extra mug on the low table. Kame drowsily curls up on the couch; his head is on Yamapi’s lap just as easy as Yamapi’s fingers are tangled on his hair.

It is a good thing they both have the morning off.

 

\--

 

Today’s school is not as easy as the previous ones. The kids are a bit more insane, bouncy and talkative, and they can’t convince the class the games they have prepared aren’t boring until the teacher intervenes and calms down the mob that is almost tackling Kame to the floor. Even Yamapi flinches at the stern voice, despite the old lady smiling later. Granted, the kids follow their instructions swiftly after that. Yamapi seldom wonders why Johnny is really doing this, finding no other profit than squeezing working hours from Kame and himself. But then he looks back and waves to the bouncy kids, and wonders if maybe Johnny isn’t really as profit oriented as he has thought all these years.

“Urgh,” Kame growls, and Yamapi looks up. From his place in the couch, he can see perfectly Kame frowning at whatever he has on his hand. It isn’t a reassuring image, not with the kitchen knife he has in the other one. Kame huffs, puts it down, and starts rummaging in the fridge.

Yamapi raises an eyebrow. “What happened?”

“Wrong brand,” Kame answers, muffled, and Yamapi lets out a short laugh. He joins Kame in the kitchen, pushing bottles and jars around until he finally can make room for himself in the little space there is with how Kame has decided he needs to take everything out of the cabinets to make lasagna. He is wearing one of Yamapi’s shirts, and it’s ironic how it sticks to his torso as if it were a size too small. It reminds Yamapi of how it used to be the opposite, Kame so scrawny and thin he looked as if he didn’t have any internal organs; so light Jin and Yamapi could lift him off the ground in those rare occasions Kame was distracted enough to not retaliate immediately and aim for Jin’s collarbones.

“Here,” Yamapi says, and hands him the salt when Kame seems to be searching for it. As he moves around some more, Yamapi notices how his arms are buffed, but his waist is slimmer; his chest shallow again even if it’s still muscular. He wants to poke him, pinch his tummy, but doesn’t think it wise with Kame holding a bowl of white sauce. Instead, Yamapi reaches for the vegetables, and throws some in the large pan where the uncooked pasta is.

Kame frowns at him, playful, and lets him throw the rest of the vegetables on after each layer, a colourful sketch covered soon by white sauce before there is another layer of pasta and more vegetables and white sauce to cover it. Yamapi loves cooking, he always has; even during those times meals became an enemy in disguise, he had enjoyed it, moving smoothly around the kitchen, chopping and boiling and creating new flavours from familiar ones. He knows Kame loves it too, the tasting and experimenting, even when there were times he had needed to write down on his agenda every single lunchtime not to skip it.

They move effortlessly around the kitchen, a comfortable silence settling around them, the CD Kame brought playing in the background with something that sounds like guitar chords and a gentle male voice. It is Japanese, and Yamapi wonders if it is the same Suga Shikao album Kame has been looping on his car.

“Oh, no, leave that. I’ll wash later,” he says when Kame opens the tap, but the other smacks his hands away.

“I’ll just wash while it gets done,” Kame says, and grabs one of the bowls, doesn’t really look at Yamapi as he speaks. “Set the table,” he instructs. And then turns, cheeky and mischievous, his voice conspiratorially lowering. “I have wine in my bag.”

Yamapi gasps. “Alcohol at work!” he cries, and dashes out of the kitchen in a twirl of melodrama. “The scandal!”

“I’m living on the edge!” Kame yells from the kitchen, and Yamapi laughs, pulling two glasses from the winery.

From the look of them, they have never been used. Kame says as much when he joins him in the living room, drying his hands in a towel. “Clearly you only hang out with Akanishi,” he comments, and Yamapi finds it in himself to not be surprised anymore; as if Jin was one of the many lingering bridges between them, and not as distant from Kame as he had initially thought. Kame smiles, and the napkins on his hands are some old fabric ones Yamapi’s mom bought him last year. They have never been used either.

“Don’t you _ever_ use your things, Yamashita?” Kame asks, waving the napkins on his face, a little indignant.

Yamapi huffs. “I haven’t been eating at home,” he replies. Kame’s reproof is tangible in his snort. “Feel honoured. You’re using brand new dinnerware.”

Kame snorts again, but he looks more pleased than he’s letting on; Yamapi is satisfied with that. Leaning his hip against the counter, he hands Kame the corkscrew, watches him easily uncork the bottle of Chianti. Yamapi is no connoisseur of wines, but there is a delicate tangy scent of cherry and orange and almonds, and he smiles, passing the round glasses to Kame.

Kame looks at him from behind the transparent material, eyes twinkling with the fluttering feeling of normalcy.

“What are we toasting for?” Yamapi asks, and Kame’s face lightens even more.

His hunches his shoulders, indifferent, and still strangely mellow where he’s leaning against the cabinets. “I don’t know,” he answers sincerely, and Yamapi lets himself not care when Kame’s voice sounds so relaxed, swaying like the wine in the glass between his fingers. “To Johnny?”

They laugh together. Yamapi nods. “As good an excuse as any,” he agrees, and Kame nods a thank you, like he just had a brilliant idea validated, clinking their glasses together as red wine sways at the bottom, so different from how the cans of beer he is used to clash in dainty questionable situations. Dinner and pasta and wine sounds like a Kame thing to do; and it’s slowly becoming a Yamapi thing to do, the more time he spends with Kame inside the walls of his apartment. Some days, he misses late nights of video games and beer and silly teasing and bantering. Today, he doesn’t.

“To Johnny, huh?” he mutters amused, and Kame laughs; turns to the oven when something creaks, glass tinkling when it’s set on marble, and Yamapi huffs in amusement. _To Johnny, huh_ , he thinks. And well, even when Johnny may be senile and slightly demented at times, Yamapi must accept that he still has some good ideas. Especially as Kame shoves lasagna on his face, steaming hot on the tip of a fork, Yamapi has to whole-heartedly agree. Johnny can still get some great ideas from time to time.

And he does deserve the toast.

 

\--

 

There is no jetlag. There is no convincing Jin otherwise either, as his friend frets around him instead of just calming down and sitting on the couch. Yamapi keeps the headache at bay and instead trips Jin, who stumbles, but doesn’t lose his balance and only smacks him back and gets the message. He seems like he can’t believe, _really_ believe, that Yamapi is sitting there, lounging at his place in L.A., plaid pajama bottoms the only thing he had pulled out of his suitcase since he arrived and told Jin he wasn’t there for touristic stuff. Jin had seemed unconvinced, but the worried frown on Yamapi’s face had made him scurry inside the kitchen and come back with some beers, vague explanations of his roommate not being there and showing him around done in less than five minutes before he was sitting cross-legged on Jin’s bed, in front of a spread-eagled Jin lying on his stomach, waiting for Pi to talk. The TV is on just for the white noise it creates.

Jin takes a swig of his beer. “Is this about Kame?” he asks then, out of the blue.

Yamapi actually chokes.

“What the hell,” Yamapi curses, as Jin shoves his hand away because clearly he prioritizes no beer on his bed over beer on his floor. He snorts, they both laugh, and Yamapi smacks him away and extends his legs in front of him. So much for being serious. “The hell, Jin, why would this be about _Kame_?”

Jin shrugs his shoulders. “I don’t know? You two are working together, right?” and there is something in Jin’s eyes. Because it’s Yamapi and Kame, and Kame without Jin, and it unseals a memory chest of a year hectic enough to be forgotten because it is exhausting to even start to recall.

Yamapi sighs. “How do you know?” he asks. And laughs when Jin promptly says Nakamaru. Yamapi should’ve seen that coming. “No, I wouldn’t travel this far for Kame.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” comes the rushed question. A tricky one.

Pi answers honestly.

“I don’t know.”

Jin nods, chin on his hands. It is almost as if he is really, _really_ thinking about Yamapi’s answer and Yamapi has no idea what he is making of it because he himself isn’t really sure of the _why_. “Alright,” Jin finally accepts, and looks up at Yamapi again. He must have seen something, because he frowns in concern now, all annoyance gone from his face. Yamapi smiles softly; Jin can be less hard-headed when he wants to be. “What is it then?”

It is at this moment that Yamapi halts; thinks of everything that made him come here instead of opening his laptop and abducting Jin virtually for hours and hours. Everything rushes to his mind, things they haven’t really talked about before. Things like Jin’s mood swings and Kame’s hands curling around a phone, white knuckles so tight that Yamapi wondered how he managed not to break it. Of hiccups and runny noses and that one weird night ages ago, the first time all hell broke loose, when Kame looked detached, aloof, sitting in a bar by his side as he tried to avoid Jin’s existence at all costs and Yamapi wasn’t sure what to say or do or act like when he rushed to the figure sitting on top of a toilet seat, knees drawn up to his chest, face hidden between bony knees.

He wants to ask about emails and long conversations and tell Jin all about how he has dealt with it so far, how he has hinted to Koyama and Shige and Massu and Tegoshi, and the late night talks with Ryo sipping on some beer and nodding gravely with a frown as he spoke, first quite subtle before it became tangible, and Ryo snapping at him, his mind made up already as he yelled at Yamapi to _stop_ prioritizing everyone but himself.

There are questions lingering on the tip of his tongue; on how it is and how he is coping and whether or not he _misses_ it. Whether it was worth it, the solitude and the freedom; the vast expanse of possibilities of working with oneself and that alone. The extra responsibility and pressure he signed up for. The different type of satisfaction. The lonely dressing rooms; the lack of sequins. He wants to ask if he still has his ex-bandmates numbers in his cell phone, if he still sees them; how it feels to browse through old stuff and not be on the most recent ones, to imagine a year without missing a decent New Year’s date because he’s twirling around and dancing at Countdown.

He wants to ask if Jin still talks to Kame, or if they just hear from each other, tiptoeing around their friendship as they had been doing all these years; as Pi himself has without knowing whether they still were Pi and Jin and Kazuya from Takki’s living room, from sleepovers with late night scary stories, or if they had finally become Kamenashi and Akanishi and Yamashita somewhere along the way, the distances constantly growing and filling with new faces, new gaps, and more and more glass walls.

“It’s NewS,” he ends up saying, and his voice strains, thinner than it has been. His throat suddenly dries as if he’s swallowed a sponge and it has gotten stuck against his vocal chords.

Jin seems startled for a moment. But he isn’t sprawled on the mattress anymore; his face is in front of Yamapi’s, concerned and frowning, but he doesn’t look shocked. It makes Yamapi wonder how much he has really let on in emails and phone calls, and if someone (or everyone) has seen it coming. Someone close enough to him to read between the few lines he has dropped on the subject.

Jin nods. “I’ll bring some more beer, ok?” he says, softly, and disappears. The pillows are comfortable where Yamapi lets himself fall on them, and he’s a boneless mass of nerves. Saying it out loud, discussing it; really putting it into words, the final decision and the ultimatum, makes it more real than it had been before. And it’s crushing on his shoulders.

Yamapi only leaves Jin’s apartment once. And it’s to go back to the airport.

 

\--

 

It is nothing like he expects it to be. There are sharp suits, pointed stares, and their managers stand like soldiers on a chessboard beside each of them, the large table enough to fit twelve people. The voice of his manager is monotone beside him, and he stares at some point beside Koyama’s left ear, because it’s easier to just stare there and not listen and breath in, _breathe in_ , because he still has that nagging feeling that doesn’t want to go away, the images conjured by his mind of angry glances and curt denials and Jin’s sunken cheeks after few weeks without the other letters surrounding him. He felt more courageous inside Jin’s bedroom walls, but _here_ , under the sterile light of the conference room, he feels stripped of all the logic and rational decisions that were so clear just earlier that morning. He flinches when someone snorts, and ducks his head down. Not out of shame, that is one feeling that doesn’t twist in the uncomfortable rock that has settled on the pit of his stomach. It is not shame; but it still makes him unable to face them.

“Yamashita,” Yuya’s voice cuts in. _Tegoshi’s_. Yamapi wonders if he will have to delete his number from his phone. “ _Yamashita._ Say something.”

Yamapi would’ve almost preferred a meeting like he had imagined; of chairs scraping on the floor as they were shoved back and muttered curses and cold glares then watered down by logical arguments and an undefined date for the break up announcement that made them all more upset about the final timing than the decision itself. Would’ve preferred not to have to say anything because he knows his voice will be thin, snapped in half and unsure. But Ryo kicks him under the table, glares, and Yamapi stands up instantly.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters. His back strains when he bends, but he _really_ means it. “I’m sorry,” _but this is the right thing to do_ , he doesn’t add. _I have to leave the group to do what I want to,_ but he doesn’t say that either.

Tegoshi snorts. And Yamapi feels movement around him again, tension rising up high against the ceiling when Ryo’s manager starts to talk.

 

\--

 

“Shuuji- _kun_ ~!”

Koki turns. And Nakamaru too. But Kame seems too entranced with pulling on some sequined white jacket where it has tangled with his hair that he doesn’t even notice. Then he turns, and seems to not recognize him at first, so Yamapi strides in, poking him when he’s close enough. Kame flinches, and bats his hands away. “What -?”

“So Koki dies this time, huh?” he asks offhandedly, and bumps fists with Koki. Stumbles over greetings with Nakamaru because they aren’t really close, but Kame shoves him playfully and starts taking off his makeup. Lounging backstage is always fun; people are usually too tired or occupied with getting ready to go home as fast as possible to pay any attention, but there is enough activity, the general buzz of chairs being pulled forwards and zippers closing and phones snapping shut, that it helps the purpose of keeping Yamapi’s head full of noise. And thus, blank. Just what he needs.

Koki stands next to him, zipping up his jacket. His bright blond hair suits him.

“Yo,” Koki says. He has always been nice, a face too gentle to be half the gangster he appears to be. “Any chance of you guys going to Juri’s school?”

It is amusing, how everyone suddenly cares. Kame smirks through the mirror, says he is trying to avoid schools with juniors and Koki whines. Nakamaru interrupts, “That would erase half the schools in Tokyo,” and Kame mock-glares at him for subtly siding up with Koki on this one. Yamapi twirls a hairbrush in his hands because he is too entertained to really participate in the small friendly banter. Kame laughs, cheeks rising like a squirrel, and Koki throws an arm over his shoulders. Jin used to talk, sometimes complain about them; of Kame straying somewhere far before he was pulled back by their eternal rubber band, and later nodding when Yamapi stated they had grown up, that it has never been a matter of hoarding one’s attention; that the core of friendship is something else. It is more of a titillating feeling of _belonging_ that matters.

Jin, of course, had laughed and mocked his moment of brilliance.

Kame turns to him, mirth still dancing in his eyes. And Yamapi notices he is back here, in the present, and the noise around him has slightly diminished.

“So, what should we do, Akira?”

Yamapi laughs softly, puts the hairbrush down. “I guess we could go to Juri’s school?”

Koki beams and Nakamaru complains he’s too loud between laughter. Kame slides in next to him against the makeup table and hands him a piece of candy. His eyes are wide, open, and his fingers linger softly on Yamapi’s arm then, squeezing just a little. Yamapi wonders if he knows, if his face isn’t hiding it enough, but Kame distracts him with his bright grin and a pull toward the door, and Yamapi unwraps his candy as they say goodbye to the others. It’s too sweet, strawberry red, and it leaves the taste on Yamapi’s mouth even as they climb in Kame’s car, comfortably putting on some radio while stumbling around stations.

There’s a package on his lap, still wrapped up in paper, bottle-shaped and heavy and cold.

“Koki gave it to me,” Kame states. And starts the engine. “It’s supposed to be good sake.”

Yamapi grins. And thankfully, his calendar is still free with the exception of the green circles with school names scribbled in Kame’s neat handwriting on his wall.

 

\--

 

They keep the windows up, the slight breeze of spring locked away with the aircon on as they roam through the streets without a real destination or hurry. Kame juggles their drinks on his lap, and takes Yamapi’s from his hand as soon as the red light changes and they’re moving forward again. The lights from the lampposts turn on, a slithering line of awakening golden dots on both sides where the street curves and curls, expanding over the horizon with nothing but more and more concrete to roll over. Kame is talking about something he saw on TV the other day, some new show he may or may not follow if he has the time, and how Nakamaru had told him he could watch it online. Kame had fussed with his laptop for a while before deciding it was easier to just wait until he got the chance to buy the DVDs.

“I was so annoyed, windows kept popping and…” he huffs, ending his tale with hands emulating an explosion in front of him, and Yamapi mocks him, teases about his skills with computers. Kame agrees. “Me and computers…” he shakes his head wryly, and Yamapi nods, gets punched lightly on the arm as Kame laughs.

The conversation is stilted through some minutes of silence; occasional comments in Kame’s low, quiet voice interspersed with Yamapi’s soft laugh, his mouth tight, somewhat awkward and lopsided, mind here and there and not really focused on Kame or the road or his own thoughts which had been stumbling over the same subject for weeks. Sneaking glances at Kame in the other seat, Yamapi sees a soft smile, the muffled humming to a pop song playing on the radio, and it is kind of soothing. Like he could just sit back and enjoy the ride in the detached comfort they build around each other.

Kame sighs deeply then, and fumbles with the radio. His stubby fingers still cup around his iced chai, and he hunches his shoulders as he raises his legs up. Yamapi almost tells him not to curl up on his car seat, but the way Kame leans back and sighs again makes him ignore it, focus on the lit up streets and the cars dashing past him.

A familiar tune comes on the radio. It has the upbeat sound of their junior days, and two young voices harmonizing perfectly above the loud intro. It is then made of six different tenors and high notes that make Kame still in silence. Then, he is humming along again. Yamapi grabs his chance when Kame glances back to the radio; it is scribbled on his face as plain as it once was on Jin’s. The expression doesn’t crack and sink, but it stills into the mellow fondness childhood memories are made of.

“Do you miss it?” Yamapi ventures.

Kame squirms, sighs again and looks away. His profile, bumpy nose and sharp jaw, is odd; the sharp bone structure gives him an elegant outline, bizarre in the way it has morphed so much, evolved out of its caterpillar cocoon. Kame opens his mouth just as the light goes from green to red; it is easier for Yamapi to turn to him, and he expects to look honestly interested in his answer because he _is_.

The voice filling the car carries some heaviness on it. And sounds as light as a feather. “It is complicated,” Kame finally says.

Yamapi somehow expected that, because Jin pulled out a similar card from his deck ages ago. But Yamapi doesn’t expect Kame to smile afterwards, almost grimacing because he is frowning, but not entirely. It’s just a little sad, soft smile that tugs on his chest with the tenderness underneath. Yamapi doesn’t expect that.

“I… I guess I do, yes.”

He is taken aback. Kame chuckles softly, and points Yamapi to the now green light.

“But I don’t want it back,” he adds. It takes some visible effort for the words to unravel and come out, laid out bare now and throbbing. Kame inhales sharply; Yamapi wonders if he is subduing the real puncturing wound deep below the surface, but that is not what he hears. Despite his soft tone, there is an underlying utter conviction wrapped around the statement. Kame sounds firm, almost solemn, even as he wraps his hands tighter around his drink and turns, cheek pressed against the headrest, looking at Yamapi even though Yamapi is driving and can only feel his eyes on him.

It is better, in a way.

“We are… _good_. Great. Like a real group. As if everything fell into place, you know?”

Yamapi doesn’t. Or maybe he does, but doesn’t say anything in return.

“I miss it, but I don’t want it,” Kame adds, and laughs a bit, almost bitter, as if trying to put some order to his thoughts. “Does that make sense?” he asks with a short laugh, visibly trying to assemble again, and it’s not only his thoughts that need some tug at being pulled back together.

Yamapi extends his hand; it squeezes Kame’s knee with a subtle message. “It does,” he replies. _It makes perfect sense,_ he adds with fingers closing tight over denim, doing his little something to pull the scattered pieces of his mind together.

Kame looks at him, grateful smile through the rear-view mirror. He may as well have been sorting his feelings, his thoughts, inside his mind, lips opening with the intention to elaborate, but not doing it. The chai goes up to his lips instead, steam rising from the cup, and he turns to the window, more streetlights and houses and pedestrians passing by as he returns to his humming. It is another pop song now, but it’s neither NewS nor KAT-TUN. Yamapi wonders if his bandmates would miss him too, if they’ll feel like this as well when someone asks them that question. And whether or not the dark lines that are clear now on Kame’s face are some unspoken truth he should’ve read between lines and didn’t.

His heart stutters when he mutters, almost to himself. “It makes perfect sense.” But this time, Kame doesn’t look at him. He keeps watching the pedestrians outside, silence filling up the gaps of unanswered questions and lingering feelings within.

 

\--

 

His phone vibrates on the table, but Yamapi remains in place, slumped over the tabletop, slowly gyrating on the stool next to his kitchen island, the right side of his face pressed against the pages spread underneath. _It’s Friday_ , he thinks, eyeing the calendar hanging just below the kitchen clock. The mug in his hand is now cold, and Yamapi wonders whether or not he should heat it up, when his phone vibrates once again. From where he is laying on the table, he can actually see it rocking slightly in its place. And finally picks it up.

He is still all over the table when Jin’s rushed voice and curses reach his ears. It adds to the headache he’s been nursing, and so he just puts him on speaker and waits till he has stopped his melodramatic rant with a high note of “why does Ryo have to call me, Pi, didn’t we agree you’d tell me when it’ll happen?”

Yamapi sighs, deeply; he doesn’t really feel like talking, not this early, not today. It had been part of why he didn’t call Jin like he said he would. The other part was basically because he hadn’t known the exact date till that dreadful meeting; it had loomed over his head and it had finally fallen on him sooner than expected. Avoiding everything had slightly worked. Not perfectly, but enough. And –

“Pi?” Jin’s voice filters into the kitchen. He sounds metallic; it catches Yamapi's attention with how concerned he sounds.

“M’ere,” he mumbles. His words are unintelligible, at least to his ears, so he pushes himself up on an elbow. “I’m here.”

There is a rough sound over there, wherever Jin is calling from, and the added distance of his muffled voice reminds Yamapi that Jin isn’t even on the same continent. He isn’t physically approachable, and even farther than his voice betrays him to be.

“Are you alright?”

Yamapi laughs mechanically, emotionless. Almost bitter; and as numb as his fingertips feel, playing with the hem of his sleeves and almost falling on the countertop again. He desperately wants to claw at the phone, call Johnny, or Toma, or have Jin says something else because he is _obviously_ not alright, but he bites down on his tongue and closes his eyes, and yes, he is alright now. He _has_ to be alright because this was his decision and whatever it is that he left behind, he can’t miss it. He can’t be like Kame, can’t feel that longing missing bit; has no right to. He was the one who _left_.

“Yes, Jin,” he mutters.

“Really?”

Yamapi trembles, shakes; knows somewhere inside his mind that Jin is asking because he _knows_ , but right now, he doesn’t care. He just counts in his head and _breathes_ , unclenches the hand that has balled into a fist. Then Yamapi rests his forehead on the cool marble, phone so close to him it looks massive and huge. He holds his breath, answers. “ _Yes_ ,” when he wants to say _no_ , but the words evaporate soon, as does his strength to cling to the phone. “Call you later, ‘k?”

Jin whines, but Yamapi hangs up anyway. Jin is an idiot; a clueless idiot made of heart and dreams and brightness as blinding as the smile he doesn’t show to the cameras. Yamapi wishes himself to be like that, courageous enough to _jump_ ; wonders if he has done so because he almost felt it, Jin’s heart twining with his own and making him believe everything was possible with one single flick of his wrist. But now that he has, he is alone down here, swimming with his own strength, and he feels the sinking feeling in the bottom of his stomach already, without the race having even started. He gets a call from his manager then; it tells him the green circle over today’s date on his calendar has been cancelled.

Yamapi wonders if he has to change his entire calendar to white now.

 

\--

 

He doesn’t have to. The call Yamapi gets in the middle of the weekend says to be ready on Monday, that the school they were supposed to visit has agreed to reschedule, and that Yamapi must be there _early_ , no excuses. As he walks through the corridors of the jimusho, he avoids those pathways that will raise the probabilities of walking into a former bandmate; he is not in the mood for a fight, not even a hard glare or, worse, a cold shoulder. He can’t imagine that, not after the conciliatory message that “it is for the best” falling from Shige’s lips, but he doesn’t feel like proving his theory wrong either. And thus he avoids them, walking to the elevators on the far end of the hallways, and manages to get into the dressing room assigned for himself and Kame without running into anything but some juniors looking at him curiously, hidden behind gigantic sunglasses.

Kame is reading a newspaper. Yamapi isn’t surprised to see him there this early, or dressed already as Shuuji, hair neat and flat and not as long as it should be, but enough to be pulled into a ponytail. He is sitting on the sofa, one leg crossed over the other, and the absolute silence is only broken with a turn of a page, the tapping of his foot against thin air. Yamapi notices then, how Kame barely glances up at him, eyes nothing like what he is used to, but not quite upset either. It chills him, the charged line that has tensed between them, and notices which face this is. It’s the empty face, the one that lets nothing crack the surface of professionalism. It even slips into his voice when he greets back, a cold “Yamapi,” combined with a nod before his lips clasp shut. Kame’s face closes down; and Yamapi is kept outside.

The silence is unexpectedly heavy. Kame stands up when Yamapi is ready, leaves the paper on the sofa, and Yamapi’s face looks back at himself from it, next to the scandalous red huge font letters announcing his solo. In some part of himself, he is glad Kame doesn’t comment. But as they approach the school, Kame still doesn’t say anything, and his voice mutates to low rough instructions, superficial and curt phrases as he passes him a hurried graph and tells him today’s class is slightly younger than they are used to.

They are professionals. And Kame acts like one as soon as they step inside the classroom. Even smiles at Yamapi when he has to, tugs on his sleeve and pushes him forward, and Yamapi _almost_ buys it. But then he spots those smiles, how different from the ones to the kids, how the others don’t quite reach his eyes and, even though it is subtle, it is still _there_. A tension that has never been before; thin slithering traces of wounds that weren’t inflicted by his hand but not yet healed, not completely, and a slight disappointment that manages to crack Kame’s stoic face when they are finally ready to go home.

The distance is heartbreaking.

“How is the drama?” he asks, one last shot at clinging to something, _anything_ , from where he is sinking beneath the surface. Kame looks up at him with a startled frown. Yamapi’s hand closes tighter on the strap of his bag. “You’re filming now, right? How…”

“Not yet,” Kame answers. “See you later,” he adds, bends with a nod. Efficient, polite.

_Distant._

Kame leaves, but Yamapi can’t make himself move. Not until a utility lady comes in and starts to apologize profusely when she catches him shirtless, staring blankly at his hands, shivering.

 

\--

 

Yamapi hates fighting with his sister. He hates it so much that it sends him into a frenzy to _do_ things and he ends up locked up in his room, weights going up and down until his arms hurt so much he can’t really feel anything but numbness on his muscles. He hates it especially when he knows she meant no wrong; when it wasn’t her fault but her impulsiveness that made those mistakes. He hates it when the only reason she was upset was, ultimately, _himself_. So he regrets that long talk on the phone that had morphed into yelling and screaming in frustration that has nothing to do with her; that has everything to do with NewS and Johnny and Kame and not being able to let go just yet, because he can’t ignore the feeling in the pit of his stomach, that one that gnaws at him, screaming that he has failed someone, _something_ , and it makes him tremble in despair.

When he speed dials, he doesn’t expect for it to be picked up like always, second ring, despite the other’s reputation for not answering phone calls more often than not. Kame grumbles at him; Yamapi doesn’t buy him being asleep. “Kame,” he mumbles, pressed against his pillow, phone on speaker because he can’t feel his arms. “ _Kame?_ ”

Kame groans; it sounds defeated. “What is it?” Kame finally asks as the silence stretches out. He sounds tired; as if Yamapi has exhausted him enough to be able to talk to him, cornered him into a place where he _has_ to answer. Yamapi shoves the feeling of imposing aside, and clings to the line.

“This is hard,” he mutters, and he may have trembled, curled in on himself. Kame sighs, Yamapi can tell even if it’s so soft, and wants to be able to reach out and touch him, confirm he is real and _there_ , and Yamapi hasn’t let him down because there were no spoken promises between them.

“It’s alright,” Kame finally says. His voice has softened, and he falls silent for a heartbeat or two. Yamapi’s eyes fall closed, tight; the headache throbs against his temples. “I’ll come tomorrow,” he promises, Kame _promises_ , and Kame keeps his promises, both spoken and unspoken, and Yamapi clenches the sheets, hands balled into fists. The dial tone pierces his brain then, and he only manages to shove the device to the floor, wishing for it to just _shut up_ ; wishes his brain to stop aching and his eyes to stop watching the same faces behind his eyelids, wills away the unsettling feeling on his stomach.

Yamapi chokes.

He still can’t feel his fingers.

 

\--

 

Kame arrives like he said he would, behind huge sunglasses he doesn’t need and a tam hat on his head hiding the reddish mop he has now in a ponytail. Yamapi steps aside as he walks in, straight to the kitchen; the smell of coffee fills the entire apartment then and Yamapi’s stomach grumbles, reminds him of the unleavened bread he munched on earlier, swallowed with water because it got stuck on his dry throat. Kame scolds him, sends him to bathe, and Yamapi stands in his bathroom for a while, staring at himself in the mirror; the gaunt blue circles under his eyes, the lack of makeup to cover it.

When it became so easy for his face to show how _tired_ he is, he can’t tell; didn’t think it possible then. He throws a shirt on top of his head on the way out, feet lagging behind him, and finds Kame perched on a stool, elbows on his kitchen island, where he had been when Jin called last Friday, when Yamapi’s face had been on the first page of the paper crinkled on the countertop.

He sits in front of him.

Kame frowns. “You’re a mess,” he grimaces, and Yamapi almost laughs at the irony, how many times those words should’ve been said the other way around, but they were never really good with words after all – not Yamapi and Jin at least, straightforward announcements of underlying issues were never their strong suit.

Kame rolls his eyes. “Stop looking at me like that,” he mumbles, annoyed. When he pushes a cup of coffee in front of Yamapi, Kame visibly swallows; his frown grows deeper, and he is far from here, not looking at Yamapi.

“You look like Jin, so don’t look at me like that.”

It is low, the invisible punch thrown against him. Kame isn’t even looking, paying attention to the linoleum under his slippers, while all Yamapi can focus on is the bottom of his cup of coffee, dark and unfathomable, and think how far from fair the situation is. Not as it is, it isn’t the same.

Kame’s fingers cup his mug, and they are pale and tense. “I’m not angry,” Kame whispers; it speaks of contained tremors, and Yamapi links his fingers together, right hand on left, waiting.

It takes them some minutes to look up, to breach that hesitation that is keeping them both from climbing up the glass wall; something that flutters over their heads, tangible yet subtle, and clearly _there_. In a way, he feels lost, insecure to lurk in those corners deeply sealed, opening boxes with nothing but hectic memories of still raw wounds that have nothing to do with the tense rope hanging between them right now; with how the cobwebs have gathered and now Yamapi has fallen prey to them, to _it_ , and there is no separating both moments because, for Kame, it is not another wound that gapes open. In a way, it makes the first one deeper.

“I have no right to be,” Kame adds, contradicts Yamapi’s train of thought, but his voice is low and he is speaking to his fingers, the way he plays with the tiny ring on his pinky. Yamapi extends a hand; stops midway, curls it against his chest because there are no contradictions within Kame’s body language.

Then Kame huffs, exhales deeply, and rubs his face against the heels of his hands in frustration. “This isn’t about _me_ ,” Kame finally hisses, fists on the table; his eyes are piercing, falling on Yamapi’s own anxious ones. _Guilty_ ones.

Yamapi wonders if it isn’t himself who has dragged Kame into this, projecting the crushed dreams of his big brother complex on him. The coffee ends up cold, and Kame stands up, still frowning, shoulders trembling slightly. So his hand settling on Yamapi’s startles him, make him jump in surprise, and look up. Kame is trying a smile, soft, _sad_ , lingering feelings memories are made of threading behind the tiny upward curl of his lips.

Yamapi gulps, turns his hand over. The smaller palm is warm against his now, and the prickling sensation at the back of his throat intensifies. It burns, as Kame’s final squeeze does, before he is ice cold again, hand on top of marble as Kame walks to the door.

“I’ll go buy something to drink,” Kame tells him from the doorframe. His eyes are soft now, more tired, and he doesn’t feign the smile then. No stiff grimace, no _distance_. “Alright?”

Yamapi nods. Because it is the only thing he can do.

 

\--

 

 _Kame keeps his promises_ , is the only thing that haunts his head after the third bottle is empty, and Kame is half leaning on the sofa in front of him, still entertaining a glass in his hand and sipping from it, neck arched as he lays his head back on the armrest. Yamapi has crawled near, propped on his elbow but almost lying on the floor, and talking muffled against his arm when he has to. It had taken them minutes to return to it, for Kame not to be stilled on the couch, legs crossed and back stiff; and Yamapi not to fret over bringing things he keeps fetching from the kitchen, things like towels and coasters and the corkscrew even though they had just opened a bottle and wouldn’t need it in a while. The eventual crackling of a cigarette against the ashtray diverts their attention, just enough to notice the album they are listening to is looping again, and Kame hasn’t moved at all from where he is looking out the large glass window of the living room.

He takes a deep breath. “People will be upset. It’s normal,” Kame states, but stops. Yamapi flinches, tension edging on his shoulders, cracking under bones that had been too alert, exhausted in the wait.

He needs to ask, “Are you mad at Jin?” waiting for an answer that doesn’t come fast.

Kame sighs, gazes down; looks like the figurine that was bent and stolen, left on top of a drawer, forgotten to catch dust on it. He gulps, and Yamapi cannot unsee Jin then, also reclining on his sofa and wondering when or how or what to do because this was his _dream_ , it was the right thing to do, and it had never included deep wounds that shall never heal; tugging feelings that would never go away. Yamapi wonders if he is doomed to feel the same; the constant tiny sporadic feeling of forgetting something, of there being something missing, that goes away as soon as he is up there on stage alone, but comes back when he is putting his things away in a room so silent he has to fill it with streaming music from his iphone.

“Is that why you were asking? Before?”

Yamapi doesn’t answer this time. Kame snorts, doesn’t seem to want an answer.

“No,” Kame continues. Honesty threads his words, vaguely lit, its presence threatened; Yamapi clings to it because it makes his own bundle of _feelings_ throb and shrink. “I’m not mad; with you or Jin. It’s just… everything. It came back. It was stupid,” Kame adds with a whisper, takes a long swig of his drink. Appears to be angrier at himself as he directs a glare to the bottom of his cup.

Yamapi is not satisfied. He still _has_ to ask.

“Will they hate me?”

There is an actual snort then, louder than the previous one. It almost breaks the tension if it hasn’t sounded so bitter and incredulous. Kame’s head lolls back and he looks at Yamapi, eyes crystal now, jaw tense and hard when he speaks. “I doubt it,” Kame replies; then leans forward, falls on his side as well. Their bodies form a right angle around the wooden furniture of the low centre table. “Did you discuss it with them?” he asks, and Yamapi nods, unsure, but nods. Kame arches an eyebrow. “Have you contacted them?”

Kame rolls his eyes when Yamapi stills, face empty, and rolls on his back. His beer finds Yamapi’s forehead; it clinks to it without hesitation and it feels ice cold against his skin.

“If you’re so worried about it, you should,” Kame mutters then, a sense of finality in his voice, logical and rational and yet, he also cracks a little, stumbles in his murmurs. Yamapi doesn’t really want to think about it, what those dark lines mean, and the way he is looking beyond him, somewhere in the large recess of his memories and not inside Yamapi’s living room. “I won’t guarantee kind words, but you would know that.”

Kame rolls on his stomach, pins him down with his eyes, and Yamapi wants to cling, his stomach churning. He knows what not to expect, knows about this transition, this moment where they must give each other’s some space and not push, as much as he wants to, because it’s _not_ personal, it has never been personal. It is only Yamapi, wanting to get better, wanting to be bigger and shinier and just –

Because he doesn’t want to betray anyone, and never intended to; never sat in the back of his house to plot an evil masterplan to break everyone’s hearts and step on them, step on their future projects and broken promises and he really, _really_ hates that he can’t just say that, say it is all _just happening_ and that he didn’t make this decision on a whim; that it was also hard on him, that everything is, and it crushes on his shoulders with the same weight as everyone involved, maybe more than, maybe less, but equally _hard_. Because he isn’t fucking determined and composed and strong, and the endless road is still stretched in front of him and all he wants is to keep walking it, just crawl to the end line, somewhere where Kame also understands because he is right there beside him, despite the deviations, despite the new paths; he is also there and _understands_ and gets the nagging feeling in Yamapi’s stomach, the pulling of guilt and how wrong it all is, how much he already misses it and the lungful of air he has felt afterward; that he isn’t, he isn’t –

“Hey,” Kame gets closer, and Yamapi focuses, tries to focus. Kame’s eyes are piercing as he holds his head and he is grounded then. There is a rug under his knees, and arms curling around him, Kame’s embrace that suffocates and soothes him, and Yamapi is trying to listen, because he is lost and there is no air, nothing, nothing around him. “ _Pi_ ,” Kame whispers, frantic, into the shell of Yamapi’s ear, and Yamapi’s fingers aren’t numb anymore. They are moving, curling to wrap in Kame's shirt, and Kame is pressed tightly against him now.

“ _It’s alright_ ,” Kame breathes, and Yamapi hides in his neck, lets Kame's arms cradle his trembling shoulders. _Stop it_ , it murmurs. _It’s alright,_ Kame’s hands say. _It’s alright to feel this way,_ and Yamapi clings more, closes his fingers, balled into fists against Kame’s back, and lets himself be pulled upwards, breaking the surface. _It’s fine to feel, it’s fine, it’s fine_ –

Yamapi inhales sharply.

The rug is rough when he squeezes himself against Kame, half supported on the couch, arms circling each other and foreheads together, panting. Their breaths mingle, and Kame clings to him too, mutters against his skin, and Yamapi breathes again. _Really_ breathes, heaving gasps of oxygen filling his lungs as Kame’s white knuckles close over his muscles. His lips graze Kame’s right temple, and lets himself be swayed then, end up sprawled on the rug, facing each other on their sides. There are no tears as he breathes, feelings heavy and evaporating inside his chest, echoing on his skin under the buried long lines he never threw out there, had never said out loud before. They cling then because that is all they have for now, sobs without tears, choked out feelings with fingers digging into each other's shoulders.

Yamapi can almost see them closing, the throbbing wounds they both carry, supposedly forgotten, but clawing at their throats now that they have allowed themselves the key to unleash them.

 

\--

 

He pushes the sunglasses up on his face when someone mumbles his name and greets him politely, some heads turning towards him. Yamapi can almost hear the whispers then, the judging stares that aren’t really there; but he keeps walking, pushes the button of the elevator and checks the number of the room again, trying to remember if he has ever used that dancing room or not and what on Earth KAT-TUN is doing there anyway. It is almost dark outside, and Yamapi tugs his jacket closer; the air conditioning feels chillier than usual, filtering under the hem of his clothes.

When he steps out of the elevator, he notes it is the usual one. His eyes glance toward the far end of the corridor, and relief washes over him. He fingers his phone on his pants, almost pulls it out. Almost, before he sighs and thinks it may be a bit too early yet. So he only walks to the other side, footsteps echoing in a hallway more deserted than he expects it to be, until he sees some ADs walking out of a room, people putting papers into bags and clearing stools and tugging on straps of the bags dangling from their shoulders. Yamapi nods politely, steps between them, mingles, until he is at the doorframe, smiling softly when he is intercepted and greeted and all he wants is to turn inside and find Kame where he said he would be.

He finds Kame. With a large sign that reads “Turtle” on his head, and it makes Yamapi swallow a laugh because none of the occupants of the room have noticed his presence yet. The signs look sloppy, hurriedly made, with scribbles that may as well be doodles, and are pasted on their foreheads with something that looks like masking tape. Never mind that they’re lounging in the stools around a planning table, scattered photos and fabrics all over it; the five men around it look like middle schoolers, concentrated and laughing and then Kame says _kame_ and even Yamapi jumps in place from the screams and the fingers pointed and he finally laughs at them, at Kame’s upset pout, so similar to the one he has on when tiny students beat him during a race game or throw a ball he can’t return.

Koki notices him. “Yamapi!” he yells, and urges him forward. Ueda is giggling in his place, poking Kame’s shoulder, and Kame’s face has disbelief written all over it. Maru pats him on the back. “Want to play?”

Yamapi is taken aback, wondering if KAT-TUN has suddenly gone mad or if they just want to kill some time before their next assignments. Kame snorts, says they are becoming a little addicted to it, and Nakamaru promptly shouts it was _his_ idea. They all ignore him; Junno gives them all a piece of paper where they should scribble a word for the one on their right. And then Kame is sticking masking tape on Yamapi’s forehead, smiling at him, giving him the thumbs up.

As they all gang up against Koki though, Yamapi realizes it. Kame catches his eyes, and notices the change on his expression; he reclines back and bumps their shoulders together, grin growing wider; the paper on his forehead trembles with the movement and from his hair pushing against the masking tape. “It works out,” Kame whispers, eyes lighting up with a twinkle Yamapi has missed; with the conspiratorial grin he manages when it is something just between them. When a scheme of his works perfectly as planned. “It does,” Kame smiles.

Yamapi turns to them, to how happy and cheery and _fine_ they all are. To everyone now changing in sync and attacking Nakamaru, and Nakamaru noticing because they are never subtle, and Kame’s stomp-clap-hop movement when Nakamaru almost, _almost_ says the word on his forehead. He sees Jin then, bright and shiny and full of joy, a blinding sun of energy on a stage all to himself that can barely contain the supernova he is as soon as he has a mic on his hands. And Yamapi wishes, with all his heart, to see NewS like that; see himself like this. Great, and wonderful. _Perfect_. Shining with their own light; the one they all have there, the one that has kept them burning bright all this time.

Kame turns to him then, one last time, and grins brightly. Yamapi asks, “what?” and then fingers are pointed at him, everyone dissolving in laughter, and Yamapi only laughs along, giving up, and complaining that it is not fair when basically all of KAT-TUN colludes into deceiving him with a fake punishment he now has to go through.

He doesn’t get home for a while, nor does he spend the evening with Kame like he originally planned. But when he is finally on his bed, his MacBook buzzing on his lap, he finally updates his JWeb.

It’s a start.

 

\--

 

Kame shoves him to the other side of the gym, tells him to arrange his team in line so they can start counting. Yamapi does that, the blazer a little too hot after running a three-legged race so it is laying somewhere in the floor, on top of Kame’s neatly folded one. He feels more like Akira then, sleeves rolled up and tie slapping his back whenever he jumps around the kids, and Shuuji snaps at him when he interrupts his retelling of the instructions. Everyone laughs with Akira, _at_ Akira (even Shuuji), and Akira _kons_ at them, at Shuuji, expects the eye roll, and the slight shove that comes a second too late, hesitant.

Yamapi’s phone vibrates; he loses his balance where he is crouching among the kids, Kame demonstrating what they will have to do keeping their attention on him. When Yamapi almost falls back in surprise, gasps out loud, he earns himself a stern glare from a little girl beside him. “Sorry, sorry,” Akira apologizes, and Yamapi goes back to his phone, staring in awe at the short message there, the known address and the tiny letters, and finally gets why Jin was almost moved to tears when Nakamaru crashed at his goodbye concert, quirky nervous laughter betraying emotions he was ashamed to show.

Yamapi doesn’t notice he is clutching his phone until Kame’s hand closes over it, softly, and his eyes ask him about it, but _later, we’ll talk later_ , while the kids tug on their sleeves and they have to run, play. Be Shuuji, and be Akira, and leave this place with smiles and waves and a pile of crayon drawings full of good wishes.

“Koyama,” Yamapi says much later, when they are walking to the parking lot, and Kame pants beside him, carrying his jacket on his hand. “I texted him yesterday. He replied.”

“And?”

Yamapi grins. “Movies soon,” he says, smug, and Kame laughs, shakes his head. Almost smacks Yamapi on the head, but Yamapi turns then, and he is _happy_ ; doesn’t care that is such a silly thing, a trivial thing, inconsequential. It’s _something_. And Kame is there, smiling as if it were his own triumph, telling him what a fool he was, and poking him obnoxiously in the side. So when Shuuji finds an armful of Akira draped across his shoulders, he only huffs in annoyance, but doesn’t push him away, and agrees to lunch at a ramen restaurant, cheek pecked by the two fingers that _kon_ at him.

“Your treat,” he threatens, and Yamapi smirks.

They end up eating at a ramen stall, laughing at their own antics; at the tension that is not there but titillates from time to time, at Kame making fun of him, teasing each other when the silence stretches too long on top of their little glasses of sake. They guffaw when they are asked for IDs, and then notice they never changed out of their costumes, and that they will have a hell of a day if they get them dirty and unwearable. Yamapi pokes him in the tummy and says he misses it; Kame pokes his chest and says he doesn’t miss anything. They retaliate, calm down, utter soothing words of friendship and encouragement and it all becomes serious business for a moment before Yamapi drifts from the conversation and Kame screams for him to come back, Yamapi laughing and laughing and _laughing_.

They order more ramen, more sake, and feed each other just for the hell of it, for those cobwebs falling from the memory chest they are taking peeks into, which is slightly uncovered, dusted, and apparently full of little gems and forgotten treasures. Yamapi teases Kame about his horns on the way home, and Kame punches him, shoves his hands aside when Yamapi protects himself. Then Yamapi grins, blinding, and Kame kisses him, feather light on his doorstep, soft and pliant and _barely_ there. Kame pulls back and Yamapi follows; he smiles, laughs, cups his jaw in short stubby fingers and Yamapi’s hand curls around his waist, fingers closing over air until their foreheads are pressed together, noses touching. Hair tangling.

“I’m a bit drunk,” Kame whispers.

Yamapi laughs. “Me too.”

They stay there for a moment longer. It is oddly comfortable, how they just fit together, under the lights of Kame’s hallway and detached from the world for some seconds, the rare occasions in which neither seems to care whether they are wonderful or great because they just _are_. When Yamapi is just another 20-something year old, and he is young again, incredibly so, when all he had to care about was school and friends and sleepovers on weekends; when there was no nagging feeling on the pit of his stomach, no constant pushing and rushing through life because life is here, _now_. He has missed this feeling.

“I’ll watch you tomorrow,” Yamapi mumbles, mind still hazy with the alien emotion, and Kame chuckles.

He pushes him back, smiles again, fingers tightening on his forearm. Yamapi manages to squeeze back, equally fleeting, before the door closes on his face. He has to convince himself to walk away from it; lets the hunch that tells him Kame is on the other side, listening to the elevator dinging, dissolve. It is still early. The sky is purple and magenta as he takes a cab, and rushes home.

 

\--

 

Jin on the screen frowns at him. Yamapi has just wrapped up his tale, from the slight crisis to the friendly outings, conveniently ignoring everything about the happenings in Kame’s doorframe; futile attempts at fooling him, because Jin soon figures it out, and huffs in his face, crying out, “You made out with Kame!” before Yamapi adamantly tries to deny it to a scandalized Jin asking _how could he?!_. Yamapi notices then, when Jin chokes a laugh under a cough, that he is being teased.

After it passes though, Jin’s face takes a grave tone again. The serious voice, foreign, is back there, and Yamapi clears his throat.

“Don’t hurt him,” Jin says, clear, even if he is playing with that hideous purple beanie on his hands, teeth worrying his lower lip later. Yamapi thinks of Kame telling him about Jin’s silence all these months, and wonders if Jin and Kame aren’t like Kame and Yamapi, or like Yamapi and Jin; if that rubber band he feels around his hand tugs also on their wrists and they just stumble around it, defy it for long periods of time before they are undeniably pulled back together. It reminds Yamapi of the three of them, ages ago, how they suddenly became Yamapi and Kame and then Jin and Yamapi and now it was something in between, long distances shortening without the corners really closing; not all of them. Kame’s friendship has always been different, different from Jin’s; a _good_ different. And even if they aren’t Jin and Pi and Kazu, they aren’t Yamashita and Akanishi and Kamenashi either.

When Yamapi nods, Jin gives him the thumbs up, mutters some goodbye, and the screen flickers to darkness, his face disappearing from his laptop.

Yamapi lays back on his bed, comfortable in all the pillows, waiting for Kame’s new drama to start. He finds himself speed dialling Kame’s phone, tugging his bedcovers up and accommodating Hime-chan on top of his lap. Again, Kame answers, two rings after the tone, and laughs at Yamapi’s, _Akira’s_ , voice. But he sounds excited, eager, and Yamapi really, _really_ wishes all the best as he lowers the volume when there is some dark scene unfolding, with reporters and robbers and hostages.

“Want to watch you together then?” he asks.

Kame laughs again. And Yamapi puts him on speaker.

 

\--

 

Kame jumps the last step down to the sand. Yamapi follows him, almost losing his footing and stumbling a little, bracing himself on the thin shoulders and making Kame laugh in amusement, watching Yamapi with disbelief, and walking towards the shore, wrapping their jackets tighter around themselves. Yamapi eyes the sea, wide vast expanse of gray, and wonders if they will be able to eat lobsters later, because now that he is here, he wouldn’t mind visiting some of his favourite spots, those that speak of tiny hands and chopsticks, and teaching Rina how _not_ to eat lobster.

"Here," Kame says then, and plops down on the sand. Jeans be damned, they are already full of thin soil.

Yamapi plops down beside him, watching Kame's smile as he surveys the coast, all white and grey and foggy. The air messes up their hair, knots their wayward strands and pushes it in front of their eyes. Even when Kame hides under his scarf, it dances on his forehead, and Yamapi laughs, pushing his own rebellious locks back.

Kame turns to him, smiling softly. "Ready to be Akira tomorrow?" he asks, muffled by the knit material, hot puffs of air leaving his mouth.

There is no further need of anything, words evaporating in the cavity of his chest and dying before they are uttered. Yamapi ducks his head, supports it on his knees as he draws them up to him. Kame turns to him, curious, and pokes him in the side. His gloved hands aren’t heavy, his poking on his cheek not annoying.

"Only if you’re ready to be Shuuji," he replies.

Kame laughs, bumps their arms together. The sand moves under them, the wind rushing and getting caught in the space that disappears between them. Kame’s voice is carried by it, cheerful, merry. Tranquil.

"Let's just be Kame and Pi for now."

It is familiar, the gray sky without a clear sun, and how they are wrapped in fluffy big scarves, gloved hands drawing their knees up to their chests as the wind rushes past them. Then Kame’s hand sneaks out, sneaks in, and pushes Yamapi to the sand that'll be a pain to take off later. But Kame laughs, husky and low from all the way down in his stomach, and Yamapi reacts in a way that makes them tangle and fall. It is Yamapi who entwines their fingers, and calls him Kame very softly, calls him _Kazuya_ , and it is Kazuya who inches closer, breathing against Yamapi, fingers still entwined between them, radiating a warmth that almost seems to glow. But it's not Shuuji and Akira. It's just plain Kame and Pi.

 _We have a life of our own_ , echoes in his head; but the way Kame laughs in his ear and breathes against him, tightens his hold and smiles up at the sky, Yamapi thinks that Kame may be wrong about something; because their lives aren’t straight individual lines, but large networks of threads apparent in how theirs have looped and tangled together. So oddly natural; so incredibly familiar. Such welcomed warmth.

When Kame pulls him up and their feet fall into step, sinking in the sand as they walk, shoes in one hand and smiles hidden by fluffy scarves, Yamapi chuckles, pushes one hand deep in his pocket, and realizes they will have to take a cab back home. Kame wants to walk some more, and Yamapi doesn’t mind at all.

 

****

Fin


End file.
